


adagio

by ravynwytch



Series: the poet and the muse [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: ADHD Author Writing An ADHD Character, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mortal, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Autistic Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Awkward Flirting, Cellist Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Fluff, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani has ADHD, M/M, Mentions of infantilization of an autistic character, Musician Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Neurodivergent Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Neurodivergent Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Poet Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28581762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravynwytch/pseuds/ravynwytch
Summary: Twice a week the cellist is in the park and twice a week the poet finds himself there too.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: the poet and the muse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2094249
Comments: 23
Kudos: 200





	adagio

**Author's Note:**

> Not gonna lie, this is partly inspired by the role Luca had in Nina and partly because I headcanon that Nicky can play the cello.
> 
> The ages of most of the Guard have been tweaked slightly for this fic. Most are a few years younger than their canonical physical ages.

Twice a week the cellist is in the park and twice a week Joe finds himself there too; sitting in the back row, his notebook opened in one hand and pencil in the other, the graphite poised over the stark white paper.

There’s a raised platform in the heart of the park—a twenty by twenty foot space of a dull grey coloring that anybody can rent out for a hundred quid an hour. Indie bands, bleeding heart poets, and droning debaters were a common sight upon the stage. A cellist, decidedly, was not. In fact, the man is the only cello player that Joe has ever seen grace the stage.

Surprisingly, however, the dark-haired musician draws a modest crowd whenever he is there. About twenty stragglers take up seats at random, some sitting politely, others sprawling their bodies across two or three of the hard-backed, cheap, metal chairs.

Every Wednesday and Saturday at one in the afternoon, like clockwork, the cellist makes his appearance. He stays for exactly one hour and then he packs up and leaves.

Joe has always abhorred routine. He’s an artist, after all, and there is no uniformity in the mind of one such as that. Doubly so when one has ADHD, medicated or not. But he finds he enjoys this constant in his weeks, has since that first day the dulcet tones emanating from the cello reached him, beckoning him like some siren song toward the stage.

He’d at once been enraptured by the musician sitting there: his deep brown hair, the slant of his Roman nose, the mole on the right side of his face. And then, of course, there are those intense, bright eyes that Joe has only ever caught snatches of, the cellist’s gaze always averted, trained on the instrument positioned between his long legs and strong thighs, the angle causing his hair to fall into his face, creating a sort of curtain that makes it all the more difficult to sneak a peek.

His beauty, the way his long fingers dance along the strings of the cello, the ease in which he drags the bow across those strings, the beautiful music he crafts so expertly; it draws Joe in like a moth to a flame.

Joe draws him sometimes. Quick little sketches as he sits there, listening and watching. In his mind the charcoal scribbles do not do the man justice but it’s enough to get the visual artist in him going and when he returns home, after these little morsels of a show, he crafts the most wondrous landscapes. Typically they are night scenes where the moon is high in the sky, casting a gentle glow upon the world below. He sells these to local art shops for a few pounds here and there, enough to make his part of the rent and keep himself fed whilst he’s waiting on a magazine to hear if his latest poem has been accepted or not.

Despite what some articles circulating the internet want people to think, the starving artist lifestyle isn’t actually all that glamorous and if he didn’t have roommates, he’d either be out on the streets or living back home with his parents.

For the most part, he writes about the man. The performances set his mind to racing, wordplay buzzing all about in his brain, and this handsome, mysterious cellist is oft the subject of his work. So much so that one older woman in charge of an up-and-coming society magazine told him he should put his poems into a collection and seek out a publisher.

He’d considered it a time or two but never followed through on the idea. Joe stuck solely to the monthlies and whatever cash payout they offered depending on the word count produced. It frustrated the hell out of his roommates. One of them, Nile, had once threatened to take them all and go behind his back to find a publishing house that would accept them.

Joe bought a lock box the next day.

His other roommate, Booker, who happens to also be Nile’s boyfriend, had tried to break in. So Joe bought a lock box for that lock box. Only the newest one requires his fingerprint to open so unless either of them wants to sever the pointer finger on his right hand, they definitely aren’t getting in.

They don’t need to be published in a book and placed on shelves in stores all over the world. A few have already seen the light of day in various writing journals and that’s enough. He still has full rights to every last word he’s ever put to paper in the unlikely event that he changes his mind anyway though Joe knows he won’t. It’s not that he never wants to publish a book, it’s more that he wishes to keep the words confined to a smaller crowd, as if by doing so he can continue to keep the musician mostly to himself.

The cellist never puts out a hat or tin for tips. Even his cello case is placed in such a way that doesn’t welcome the gesture. It’s another unusual aspect to his presence on the stage as typically those who rent it out do do such a thing—even the debaters.

Joe chalks it up to the musician doing this out of nothing but the desire to. He’s taking time out of his day and sharing not only his skill but the music of the greats to any who will listen and he expects not a penny in return. It’s an admirable thing though Joe thinks it would be more than fair to ask for small money donations. After all, people need to live and a hundred pound is nothing to sniff at.

Today is Saturday and it is one minute after one in the afternoon and the cellist is not here. This is not normal. The man is always here on the dot and not a moment sooner nor a breath later. Joe leans back in the cheap metal chair he’s taken up residence upon and drums his fingers against his notebook. He cranes his neck this way and that but there is no sign of the dark-haired man or his cello case.

Traffic has been bad today, more so than usual, so perhaps that is what is keeping the other. Even the most carefully organized plans can be turned on their head by an unpredictable uptick in traffic. Especially that of the London variety.

He waits until another fifteen minutes have elapsed before scanning the distance once more for the cellist. Joe considers staying a touch longer until some alternative rock indie band called No Gap takes the stage and opens with a song they call _Stay the Night_.

Their music follows him out of the park and onto the bustling streets of London. Joe has nothing against alternative rock and, truthfully, their music isn’t half-bad but they aren’t who he came to see and right now his brain is on a hyper focus trip and when it gets like this he finds it difficult to pay attention to much else.

Upon returning to his flat, he’s greeted to a commotion. Booker and Nile are arguing about their shared _Animal Crossing_ island... _again_. Joe wishes they would just finish decorating the damned thing so this wouldn’t continue to be a weekly occurrence.

He makes a valiant attempt at slipping past them unnoticed but the flat has a creaky floorboard that simply refuses to be avoided and the loud groan that emits from it gives away his position entirely. Like hawks zeroing in on a defenseless mouse, Booker and Nile’s gazes snap to him.

“Joe, help us resolve this,” Booker says.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

He manages to keep his sigh in his lungs and his eyes from rolling into the back of his head but only just barely. “What’s the problem this time? Can’t agree on where to set down Benedict’s house?”

“No, we kicked Benedict out three days ago for Apollo,” Nile explains. “The problem is that _Sebastien,_ ” she side-eyes her boyfriend, “says that the store would look best by the beach and I say it would look better by the waterfall that’s right after one of the bridges.”

Nile moves her little character from said beach to the aforementioned waterfall and the couple look at Joe expectantly.

Nobody would ever anticipate a bartender attending university to obtain a degree in Psychology and a Lit. Professor (not at the same university) to take a game as innocent and cute as _Animal Crossing_ so seriously but they did and honestly, it was adorable.

They had met a couple years back. Booker had stumbled into the bar that Nile continues to work at to this day and she’d been the one to refuse him a drink. He’d been far too intoxicated to legally be served and she hadn’t cared about him trying to bribe her with a fifty for two fingers of whiskey.

He’d been in a bad place at the time. Wife and sons had died suddenly three years before their encounter and he hadn’t gotten grief counseling. Instead he’d found his comfort at the bottom of a bottle and had kept that up until Nile got on him just in the nick of time as he was in danger of losing his job on top of everything else.

She had taken his ID that night, called him a cab, sent him home. When Booker had returned the next morning, they had gotten to talking and within six months she was getting the Frenchman into programs to help him deal with his grief and get sober.

Nile made it clear back then that she wasn’t trying to fix Booker. It wasn’t her job (yet) to fix him or any man, but she wanted to help him if she could. If he had refused to meet her half-way, she wouldn’t have bothered. You can only help others so much and there’s no point in tearing yourself apart for somebody who doesn't want it.

Booker is in a much better place now. He still keeps up appointments with a psychiatrist and attends bi-monthly AA meetings. Nile doesn’t think so but she saved Booker. She saved him from himself, rescued him from an early grave. Joe and the rest of their friend group are eternally grateful to her.

“Hmm...I’d say the waterfall.”

“Yes!” Nile cheers whilst Booker groans beside her.

“You know,” he says, looking up at Joe, “You’ve known me longer than you’ve known her.”

“It’s amusing that you think that knowing someone for a longer period of time than somebody else buys unwavering loyalty.”

“It does,” Booker insists.

“Hey, he agreed with your idea about the flower patch last week,” Nile points out as she has her _Animal Crossing_ self rush into the Resident Services building to talk to Tom Nook.

“Until he changed his mind and agreed with you.”

Joe shrugs. “What can I say, Nile has better ideas.”

Booker gives him a blank look and Nile snorts. “So,” he says, changing the subject, “How was your cellist today?”

“Not there.”

“That’s strange, he’s always there on Saturdays.”

“Evidently not this time.”

“Maybe something came up. Could have been something personal,” Nile muses.

“Anything’s possible,” Joe agrees. He looks towards the kitchen, the itch to do something and expel some of the energy thrumming through his body far too great to be ignored. “How does couscous with lamb stew sound for dinner?”

“Your mother’s lamb stew recipe?” The couple asks in unison.

“Always,” he says with a laugh, already retreating into the kitchen.

* * *

Andy comes by two days later. She’s just sort of there in the morning when Joe wakes and staggers out of his bedroom, bleary-eyed and hair a mess. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of tight, black boxers and a Chelsea F.C. football shirt. He doesn’t scramble to get dressed, only wanders into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee which Andy has so courteously made a pot of.

She’s munching on a granola bar which Joe knows for a fact came from their snack cupboard.

“Does Quynh not feed you at home?”

Andy glances at him, a reproachful but playful glint to her eyes. “I _can_ cook, you know.”

“Andy, you once burnt toast so badly they were little more than lumps of charcoal. We could have handed them out to misbehaving children at Christmas time.”

“First, you don’t even celebrate Christmas. Second, shut up,” she grouses, bumping her hip into Joe’s, nearly causing him to spill his coffee all over himself.

Joe bites back a laugh and takes a few steps away from her. “How are things going at the museum?”

Andy works as a curator in the British Museum and writes historical papers on the side. She’s damned good at her job. In fact, everyone in the museum thinks she’s the best. Her dedication towards preserving history and getting the truth of it out into the world is inspiring. She’s even been loaned out a number of times to assist other museums with their cataloging and histories.

Much like how Nile’s work brought Booker to her, Andy’s occupation allowed her to cross paths with Quynh.

There had been a History of Opera display for a short time within the museum when Andy had first been employed. Quynh was still an aspiring opera singer at the time, had not yet gotten that big break that _Le Nozze di Figaro_ would grant her the next year.

Andy had been immediately smitten with the other woman. And who could blame her? Quynh looked, quite literally, like a goddess. Held herself like one too but lacked an air of arrogance about her that one might associate with such a powerful being. Her blazing intelligence only added to her beauty.

The women bonded over history and the music of the last seven decades—Andy is not much a fan of opera, though she has never made disparaging remarks about it and can sit through an entire performance if Quynh is a part of it.

Joe is somewhat in the same boat but not even Quynh can get him to truly tolerate an entire opera in one sitting. It’s not that he minds it but the shows go on for far too long and he always finds himself growing antsy near the hour and a half mark if that. Even his focusing exercises can’t save him in such a situation.

“Pretty good,” Andy answers, swallowing down a bite of granola. “We got a few pieces on loan from Spain to finish our History of Spain display. Have to get it set up by the fifth of next month.”

“It’s the twenty-ninth now, that’s cutting it a bit close, don’t you think?” Joe inquires with a frown.

“Yeah but what can you do when your boss wants something done when they want it and not when it’s most convenient for their workers who have to put in extra hours that they will not be paid overtime for?”

“Go on strike?”

Andy laughs. “I like the way you think.”

“I’m full of great ideas.”

“Like that idea you had last June to taunt a bunch of Arsenal fans after Chelsea won a game against them? As if a bunch of drunk, angry English guys wouldn’t try to beat your ass into the concrete?”

“That was the fault of my ADHD. I had a very sudden rush of endorphins enter my brain,” Joe says matter-of-factly.

Andy hums. “Anyway, Booker and Nile texted me that your cellist was missing yesterday.”

“They’re worse than gossipy fishwives.”

“Hey, we’re friends. I have to know these things.”

“You don’t but sure,” Joe deadpans as he sips at his coffee.

“You got any pictures of Mr. Musician?”

“Not photos but I have drawings.”

“That’s what I meant,” Andy says because she knows him far too well.

“One second.” Joe retreats to his room to grab one of his sketchbooks. It’s one he had finished filling up the pages of a little over two weeks ago. The last dozen or so pages are occupied with little else besides the cellist: a flower here, an animal there, the outline of a building in a cramped margin.

“These are only rough sketches,” he informs her. “They don’t really... _capture_ him.”

Andy takes the book from his hands and flicks through the pages. “Huh, this looks like Nicky.”

“Nicky?”

“Yeah, he’s Quynh’s friend. I’m sure she’s mentioned him around you before, they’ve known each other for years. Met after one of her performances when she was getting started. He was new to the orchestra. Guess they felt a sort of kinship with one another.”

Joe thinks hard, reaches far back in his mind in an attempt to conjure up a memory of Quynh ever bringing up a Nicky that she knows. There is something there, an off-handed mention or two but never about an occupation, only ever about how Nicky would like this or that. Not enough for Joe to ever think to actually ask about this Nicky of hers. If the cellist in the park is indeed him, then Joe is glad to finally put a name to the face. He's never been able to ask, always too lost in his sketches or writings that by the time he manages to drag his attention away, the other has gone.

“I’ll let her know you’ve become quite taken with her friend,” Andy says, one side of her mouth twisting upwards into an impish smirk.

“Don’t,” Joe protests.

“Why not?”

“You know how Quynh is, she’ll try to set us up on a date.”

“Is that so bad?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t dated in nearly two years.”

“It has not been _that_ long,” Joe argues.

“Yes it has.”

“It doesn’t matter. An infatuation is nothing to set up a date over. He’s a...muse, nothing more.”

“You said ‘infatuation’.”

“It’s just a word, Andy.”

“You’re a poet, words aren’t ‘just words’ with you,” Andy scoffs.

Joe sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. “Promise me you won’t let her set us up on a date.”

“I promise.”

Too bad Andy is a goddamned liar.

* * *

His alarm goes off at six-thirty and pulls him from bed. The sun is barely up but it doesn’t bother him, he’s never based his sleep around the sun or the moon, only the clock. Following a carefully crafted routine is important to him.

It started as a child, worked out by his mother with his input sprinkled in. She’d been reading up a storm about autism after he was diagnosed and all the books she could get her hands on at the time mentioned how important routine was. At first she and his father had babied him some as they learned to navigate how to best care for an autistic child. In the end they had done something that he was most appreciative of: they let him be his own person. They allowed him to be an independent individual and learn to do things for himself rather than holding his hand throughout life—though they were always there if he ever required their assistance. Some needed that, the constant presence of a parental figure, but not him and he was eternally thankful that they had come to that realization rather than assuming the role of overbearing caretakers his whole life.

Nicky’s kept to a schedule ever since, making adjustments here and there when need be such as throughout his years at university and when he had finally moved out of his family’s home in Genova and into his own place in London. He is content in the repetitiveness and order that it grants him.

He always gets up at six-thirty and not a minute sooner nor does he ever hit the snooze button. From there he makes his bed, takes a shower, brushes his teeth, combs his hair, gets dressed, and heads out into the living room.

He turns the TV on to the morning news before he goes to make his coffee, the low tones of the journalist’s voice barely coherent in the kitchen. He checks his phone, which is plugged into a charger near the toaster, as the water boils.

There’s always a text from his older brother waiting for him and today is no different. It’s just another part of his locked down morning routine.

 **Federico** **(** **Sent:** **6** **:** **29** **AM** **):**  
 _Buongiorno_ _, Nico!_

 **Me (Sent: 6:45 AM):** _  
Buongiorno._

 **Federico (Sent: 6:46 AM):** _  
__Saw your performance on the TV last night. You were great!_

_Ma cried but don’t tell her I told you that._

Nicky lets out a gentle laugh.

**Me (Sent: 6:46 AM):**

_Grazie._

_I won’t._

**Federico (Sent: 6:47 AM):**

_Listen, I_ _hate to bring this up suddenly but_ _Ma wants to know if you’ll be coming home for Zietta Viola’s birthday._

 _Your nieces and nephews would like to see you too._ _They miss you._

Nicky sighs. He's certain that Federico doesn’t mean it that way, but the last sentence reads so much like a guilt trip. If his brother notices it later, Nicky knows he’ll get a ten text long apology. He could point it out now but he doesn’t want to make Federico feel badly. He’s always been something of a people pleaser, making others upset is the last thing he wants to do—though push him enough and Nicky won’t think twice before putting his foot down. And, admittedly, he misses his nieces and nephews too. It’s been close to a year since he’s last seen his family. But to go home because of Aunt Viola...

He worries his bottom lip. His aunt’s birthday is still three months away, more than ample enough time to adjust his schedule, to make peace with the fact that his routine will be thrown off for a short time. Nicky is fine making modifications with enough warning. Typically two to three days for small things and a two week minimum for the bigger ones. It’s why he loves being part of an orchestra, there’s a set date and time for the shows and he works it in seamlessly amongst everything else in his life.

Just the other day there was a concert he had had to attend with his group in the early afternoon. It had been a Saturday and every Saturday at one he’s in the park and playing his cello on the stage for anyone who might want to relax and listen. The concert wasn’t sudden, it was something he’d been prepared for, had months to do so, and so there was not an ounce of anxiety or upset to be had that day. He had been perfectly at peace.

It’s not the plane ride that bothers him, it’s not even the break-up in his routine—he’s experienced that before on multiple occasions—it’s just something that happens with travel. No, what does get under his skin is his aunt. She’s... _difficult_ , to say the least. But it’s been so long and he can deal with Aunt Viola for one day, just one day being in her presence and then he can ignore her and focus on his more immediate family for the remainder of his stay.

The water finishes boiling at the same time Nicky releases a steadying breath.

**Me (Sent: 6:50 AM):**

_I’ll be there._

**Federico (Sent: 6:51 AM):**

_Bellissimo!_

_See you then!_

_Talk to you later._

**Me (Sent: 6:51 AM):**

_Addio_

He makes his coffee and eschews food entirely, suddenly having lost his appetite and he knows he should eat but he can’t. He just can’t.

Nicky gets his laptop out, booting it up as he moves into the living room to take a seat on the couch and watch the last few minutes of the current hour block of the news. He wastes no time in ordering a ticket to Italy, the flight is scheduled for the day before Aunt Viola’s birthday and it’ll give him enough time to wind down from his flight before the party.

He snaps his laptop shut once the ticket has been bought and finishes his coffee before turning off the TV. His cellphone goes off as he crosses back into the kitchen to place his dirty mug into the sink.

**Quynh (Sent: 7:03 AM):**

_Hey, Nicky, how would you feel about meeting someone?_

_Like for a date?_

_He’s really nice. A friend that I think you’d really hit it off with._

A date?

Nicky shifts from one foot to the other, suddenly uncomfortable. He hasn’t dated in nearly four years, not since he was twenty-two. His last relationship had ended abruptly—in fact, he’s the one who had terminated it.

His ex had held no respect for him. They hadn’t been living together, thank God, so it wasn’t like his boyfriend’s mess had bothered him much—Nicky simply avoided going to his place—but it was the being talked over constantly, it was his boyfriend not letting him do things for himself, it was the man not respecting that Nicky needed _peace_ and only being able to handle so much noise before he’d suffer from sensory overload. Then there was the insistence that Nicky speak English at all times, even when talking to his own family over the phone. And the worst of it was that his ex completely ignored Nicky’s sexual needs.

He had tried to get his boyfriend to touch him. He had bought sexy outfits, beckoned the man into the bedroom where he was spread out on the silk sheets, wearing not a stitch on his person. And yet his boyfriend only ever told him to get dressed, would ignore when Nicky expressed to him that he needed sexual gratification too, that he needed that level of intimacy to feel fulfilled in the relationship. And so, Nicky was alone in taking care of himself. He confined his masturbation sessions to the shower because hearing Nicky voice his pleasure upset his ex. Maybe it wouldn’t have upset him so much if he just fucked Nicky or let Nicky fuck him. When the cellist had brought it up to him...well:

“I thought people with autism didn’t want sex?”

“It’s autistic people,” Nicky had corrected. “And no, that’s not true. Not for all of us.”

“Huh...okay.” His boyfriend had shrugged and nothing came of that. He continued to not touch Nicky in any way that could be read as sexual. Even the kisses were as chaste as if one were greeting a fucking _nun_.

But he is no holy man. He is no child. He is a grown man with a job and a home. He pays bills, does his own shopping, takes care of himself. And yet he had been treated with kid gloves by a man who claimed to be attracted to him. No matter how often Nicky had sat down and talked to him, had expressed his frustration and his ex had promised to do better, it never went anywhere, nothing ever changed. And then one night it had all come to a head.

“Get out,” Nicky had said as they were having dinner. His boyfriend had come around the table to cut his food for him and that had been the straw that had finally broken the camel’s back. Truly obliterated it into a million tiny shards of bone.

“Excuse me?”

“Get out of my flat.”

“Nicky, what the fuck?”

“I’m tired of you treating me like an infant. Leave.”

“Nicky, come on—”

“Fuori dal cazzo!” He didn’t often raise his voice or swear but he had reached his boiling point. More than reached it, actually, and now it was all spilling over.

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“Prendi la tua merda e vai!” Nicky’s mind was locked into Italian mode and wasn’t about to let up. Not for that _stronzo_ , not to give that little _bastardo_ of a man any sort of comfort.

“I can’t understand you when you talk like this!”

“Allora ti mostrerò cosa sto dicendo,” Nicky said with an unsettling calm as he crossed into the living room, grabbed the few things his boyfriend had brought over, opened the door, and threw them into the hallway, the items smashing against the opposite wall.

His boyfriend had destroyed his cello in retaliation. “Asshole,” he swore as he left.

Nicky had slammed the door, texted Quynh that he needed help, and proceeded to have a meltdown. Quynh wanted to find his ex and hit him for the cello, for causing Nicky so much distress. He’d stopped her but only just barely.

It had been an incredibly troubling week for him following his break-up whilst he waited for a new cello to come in. He’d special ordered an exact replica, needing _his_ cello back. He couldn’t settle for anything else, another would not do.

On the one hand, he can’t go through that again, on the other, he trusts Quynh. If this man is a friend of hers then he must be safe. Quynh is careful about who she associates with and doesn’t hesitate to cut toxic people out of her life. It’s worth a shot, right? He doesn’t want to be alone the rest of his life. He deserves to love and be loved in turn like everybody else.

**Me (Sent: 7:06 AM):**

_Okay._

_When?_

* * *

_Nicolò_. Meaning ‘Victory of the People’.

 _Di Genova_. Meaning ‘Of Genova’.

 _Genova_. A city in Northern Italy. Capital of the region of Liguria and sixth-largest city in Italy. Home to over six-hundred thousand people. During the Middle Ages it was one of the wealthiest city-states in all of Europe.

Joe _might_ have done a little research the night before. He now knows more about the North of Italy than he ever had before—and that had been exactly nothing—though it's not like he's going to use the information to impress his date. Having somebody explain your own home to you would make anybody up and leave right on the spot. So he'll keep it to himself, keep all the fun little trivia locked up in his mind for when he might need it later. Maybe for a poem.

“Di Genova?” Joe had questioned Quynh after she’d told him the cellist’s full name once she’d broken the news that she planned to set them up on a date. Joe had tried to protest but it was useless against Quynh. It was like attempting to roll a massive boulder up a hill and frankly Joe didn’t want to embrace the role of Sisyphus with her. “Unusual name.”

“He comes from a long line of nobles. A _very_ long line. His family can trace their bloodline all the way back to the 10th century. There’s much pride there and so they kept the regional name rather than adopting a modern version such as Genovese or the like,” Quynh explained. “You know, his family is actually the wealthiest in all of Genova.”

“Damn, he’s got money? Now you _have_ to marry him,” Nile said. Booker snorted a laugh into his drink.

“Let’s not jump the gun,” Joe muttered. He turned his gaze towards Andy. “And I still haven’t forgiven you for not talking Quynh out of this.”

"I'm only sorry I hadn't thought of it sooner," the Vietnamese woman lamented.

“You’ll thank us later,” Andy responded at the same time.

“When is this date exactly?” Booker asked.

“Four days from now. Gives Nicky plenty of time to make any adjustments in his schedule that he needs,” Quynh explained.

“What’s he like?” Joe asked.

“He’s very kind. Quiet, too. He’s not much of a conversationalist so don’t take offense to that, I promise he’s listening.”

“Got it,” Joe said with a nod. He doesn’t mind people being better listeners than talkers. Not everyone can be a social butterfly, after all. Not like him and his sister. Oh the grief they'd caused their parents whilst growing up because they’d wander off and start conversations with just about anybody.

Nicky is free to speak or not speak as much as he wishes.

 _This will be fine_ , Joe tells himself as he finishes getting ready. The clothes he’s chosen are business casual. The restaurant Quynh picked out for his and Nicky’s date is nice but not someplace that requires a tie. Done for his benefit, he’s certain, as he isn’t exactly the number one fan of that particular garment.

Joe had worked a soul-sucking office job during his time at university that was so mind-numbing it caused him to need to frequently leave his desk in order to take a short walk around the space in some attempt to quieten his mind and expel any energy he could. It had proven ineffectual. That was when he had come to the decision to get medicated. Adderall did the trick for the most part but no medication is ever a hundred percent and he still had moments where he couldn’t focus, whether from his mind wandering, depression creeping in, or being too hyper.

He’s been on medication for near a decade now and still he’s prone to days like that. When the pills fail, he tries meditation or prayer or one of his focusing exercises but even those aren’t always effective. Mental illness is a constant battle but he feels he's winning so he’s not too bothered by it even if it can be a source of frustration some days.

Today is a pretty good day, especially because he’ll finally be face-to-face with the cellist. The thought makes a grin spread across his face.

He checks his watch to see it’s half past seven. He has to be there by eight which gives him a rather tight window as the restaurant is a good twenty minutes away and with London traffic, it’ll take even longer.

Joe adopts the properties of a whirlwind then, wrapping up in the bathroom with a quickness that Usain Bolt would be envious of. He grabs his coat off the hanger by the door, bids his roommates farewell, and then he’s gone out the door, giving Booker and Nile absolutely no chance to wish him luck.

* * *

Nicky is one big ball of nervous energy. One would never be able to tell by looking at him, his expression one of utter serenity. He’d become a master at masking by age twelve and even when alone he rarely let it slip. This was only a date, it was perfectly normal, there was nothing to be anxious about.

Alright, so even neurotypicals could feel a tad queasy meeting someone new but he couldn’t think like that, couldn’t let his nerves get the better of him or he might do what he’s been considering on and off for the last forty-five minutes and message Quynh that he’d changed his mind. He hasn’t, not really, but it’s been so long and he’s never been good at the whole first date thing. They’re so awkward and do nothing more than cause him further anxiety to the point where he has to fight the urge to stim. Turns out not many prospective partners find it all that attractive when your leg begins to bounce like a jackhammer.

His clothes are neatly laid out in the middle of his bed. He’s freshly showered and standing nude in his room, looking down at the garments, contemplating—for the sixteenth time now—if he should contact Quynh.

It’s like she senses it because suddenly his phone lights up with a text.

**Quynh (Sent: 7:00 PM):**

_You can do this!_ _☺️_

Nicky smiles down at the message. She’s right, he can do this. He _deserves_ this. He deserves to have nice things, deserves to go out and enjoy himself with somebody that might turn out, in the end, to be good to him.

The venue she chose is nice and most importantly, it is quiet with a live band consisting entirely of stringed instruments. It will be a perfectly pleasant evening spent with Yusuf Al-Kaysani.

 _Yusuf_. Meaning ‘God Increases’. A form of Joseph, like Saint Joseph, husband to the Virgin Mary.

 _Al-Kaysani_. Meaning unclear though he knows Al- means ‘The’. He’d found something close on the internet, Kaysan, meaning ‘Wise’ so Nicky is choosing to believe that’s what it stands for.

It sounds wonderful when all strung together. _God Increases the Wise_.

His mother would have adored it. She had been a pious woman though not ignorantly so. She had loved and believed in the goodness of God, attended Church every week, prayed before bed every night, and devoted as much of her time as she possibly could to helping those less fortunate. If anybody was deserving of a sainthood, it had been his mother.

She’d named him after Saint Nicholas of Myra for two reasons, the first was a sort of act of devotion to God after a difficult pregnancy and an even more difficult birth. He’d nearly died the day he came into the world.

Nicky had been a breech baby and the fact he had been delivered alive and well was a miracle in his mother’s eyes and that gave way to the second reasoning. She viewed him as her gift. It was something that would, later on, morph into a light-hearted joke as the family realized, after all had grown calm again, that he had been born the day before her own birthday, the exact date when she'd fallen into labor having been forgotten in all the chaos.

She wore a Saint Nicholas pendant every single day after his birth. She had even been buried in it.

 _So I can carry a piece of my_ _beautiful_ _Nicolò with me wherever I go_ , she would say.

He needs to go on this date. He’d made a promise to her on her deathbed that he’d find happiness in someone, that he’d find somebody to love him for who he is and not who they could pretend he was.

His resolve strengths at the memory and at last, he slips into his clothes and heads out of his flat.

* * *

Joe is late. He curses himself as he fast walks through the restaurant, keeping an eye out for the cellist whose features he’s intimately familiar with. Was intimate pushing it? Maybe, but then he _has_ been sketching the other for months now so perhaps it’s an apt word to use in this case.

Halfway into the dining room he sees him. The other man is staring down at his hands, wringing them together. Joe is at once relieved that the other hasn’t made a run for it and feels like actual shit that he had lost track of time and was only now arriving at nine past the hour. Way to make a first impression.

And it’s not like he can just drop into the seat across from Nicky and go ‘hello, so sorry I’m late, I have ADHD and that can make it hell to keep track of time. Anyway, what looks good here?’ either. Yeah, no, that would definitely send the other running for the hills.

The man looks up as Joe stops beside him and _wow_ , those eyes. It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact coloring of them, especially given the dim lighting of the room, but Joe’s poet brain can think of dozens of flowery phrases to describe them.

 _Like the sea after a raging storm as the clouds are only just beginning to part,_ _the light peeking through the grey curtains._

“Yusuf,” he says dumbly as he reaches out a hand, lost in the other’s piercing gaze. “But you can call me Joe.”

Nicky glances down at the other’s hand and it takes him a moment to process that he should take it. It’s not that he doesn’t understand the concept of a handshake—of course he does, he's been shaking hands his whole life thanks to a multitude of high society functions he’s been forced to attend throughout his life—it’s more that he’s so utterly taken aback by the other’s looks.

Yusuf Al-Kaysani is a _ridiculously_ gorgeous man. Nicky is a musician, not a poet, and whilst his vocabulary is vast, he has not the words to describe the other. Not more than in blunt observations; like how the curls upon his head look so incredibly soft that he has to use every ounce of willpower contained within his body not to reach his hands out and sink his fingers into them. Or that his beard perfectly compliments his face, adding to it a maturity which perfectly suits his build and facial structure. And there are those eyes; such a deep brown they look almost black. They hold a brilliant sparkle inside their depths that Nicky thinks should be impossible due to the darkness of them but there it is.

He wonders how it’s possible that not every last pair of eyes is on the man before him. Do they not see how handsome he is?

Numbly, he takes the other’s hand in his and gives it a firm shake. Silently he prays that Joe hadn’t noticed his leg bouncing under the table before he became aware of the other’s presence. He already knows Joe saw him wringing his hands, was doing it right up until they made eye contact.

“Nicolò. But you can call me Nicky,” the cellist parrots and Joe _instantly_ falls in love with his accent.

Joe gives him a thousand watt smile before taking the seat across from him. “Sorry I'm late. But it's nice to finally meet you face-to-face, Nicky.”

“Huh?”

“I watch you in the park all the time so it’s great to finally be able to talk to you.” Joe pauses as he thinks over what he’s just said. “I’m sorry, that was worded poorly, makes me sound like a stalker.”

“Only a little,” Nicky jokes lightly.

“What I mean is, I’ve seen you play in the park. I’ve sat in to watch your performances. You’re wonderful.”

“Oh...grazie.” He cringes. Nicky had told himself not to employ even a drop of Italian tonight and yet it had come tumbling right out of his mouth. His brain and vocal cords are traitors. A simple word, yes, but still a bother. “I mean—”

“Prego,” Joe responds with a wink.

It’s enough to give Nicky pause, like a deer in headlights. What does the wink mean? Is it flirting, is it Joe poking fun at him? He has absolutely no idea. A wink can mean a million and one things.

“So, what do you do for work?” Joe inquires, opening the menu in front of him. It’s his turn to internally cringe now. “That’s a really dumb question.”

The corner of Nicky’s mouth twitches upwards.

“What I meant to ask was, what company are you with?”

“ _The_ _Lyra Symphony Orchestra_.”

Joe lets outs out a low whistle. “That’s a popular one. They’re tough to join, I’ve heard.”

“Yes, they are.”

The process of getting into the orchestra is an arduous and stressful one. Nicky had thought about giving up time and again but he’d stuck with it even after suffering a handful of meltdowns throughout the four months it took to be picked. He had wanted more than anything to be a part of them. His brother had told him it might be best to try for a chamber orchestra instead but Nicky had been adamant about _Lyra_ —the fact they didn’t travel outside of London was a big draw for him as well.

Yes, a symphony is far larger than a chamber but he doesn’t mind. When he plays, the world bleeds away, all that remains is the music as he enters a state of tranquility. Even the raucous applause that bursts forth from the audience is entirely drowned out by the euphoria that comes with playing.

He’d been elated when _Lyra_ had chosen him. There had only been one open seat left in the cello section and he’d managed to impress the conductor so thoroughly that he had come to a decision immediately, allowing Nicky to snatch up the much coveted position. He’s been with them ever since and they’re wonderfully understanding towards his autism.

Nicky loves his work and he can’t imagine doing anything else.

“What’s your position?”

“Excuse me?”

“In the orchestra, I mean.”

“Oh,” Nicky mutters, “First chair.”

“I should have guessed. I’ve never seen anybody play like you do. It’s beautiful.” And yes, Joe is repeating himself, he knows he is but he can’t help it. The poet is lost for words and, for perhaps the first time in his life, doesn’t know how to hold a conversation.

“Thank you. And what is it you do for work? I’m afraid Quynh didn’t tell me.”

“I’m a poet, mostly,” Joe explains. “But I do some art on the side.”

“Have any of your poems been published or your art put in a gallery?”

“My art is not good enough for a gallery but my poems _have_ been published; in society magazines and writing journals.”

Nicky wants to object, wants to say that he doubts Joe’s art is not good enough. It’s a reflexive response when he hears somebody put themselves or their work down—something carried all the way from childhood into adulthood, his mother having instilled in him the importance of self-affirmation though he's always found that he's better at affirming others over himself—but he reins it in. Some people aren’t comfortable with that sort of thing so it’s best to leave the words unsaid and move on. “Which ones?”

“Oh, a good number of them. _Hyde Elite_ , _The Poet’s Room_ , _Music for the Soul_. Just to name a few.”

Nicky has not the faintest clue how to respond to that. He doesn’t read magazines, hasn’t heard of any of the ones that Joe has just listed, has never read a single one of Joe’s poems and he feels guilty. The other man has seen him play and he hasn’t glanced so much as a syllable that the artist has put out into the world.

“That’s...nice,” he mumbles in the end and did that sound condescending? Did it sound frightfully snobbish? The smile on Joe’s face says no but Nicky has learned that sometimes people smile to hide how they really feel. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Joe asks, eyebrow raised.

“For not reading any of your poems. I don’t read magazines.”

The other man laughs, leaving Nicky bewildered. “You have nothing to apologize for. I didn't walk into this date expecting you to be able to quote my own poetry back at me.”

Slowly, the tension leaves the cellist’s body as he absorbs Joe’s tone and words and concludes that the man is being genuine.

“So...siblings?” The poet moves on.

“Six. An older brother,” Nicky starts. “The rest are younger, two other brothers and three sisters. The younger ones are all half-siblings.” There was a twenty year gap between him and his youngest sister. Contrary to popular belief, that did not mean they are not close. In fact, little Claudia adores him; he is her favorite.

“And I thought my parents had their hands full with two,” Joe laughs. “I have an older sister. Fatima.”

Oh. Should he have said the names of his own siblings? There were so many and he was self-conscious about sounding like he was rambling. Nicky mulled over if he should indeed come out with the others’ names. It was only thanks to the long overdue arrival of the waitress that kept him from doing so, the woman’s inquiry in what she could get them to drink effectively drawing their attention away from the current topic, saving Nicky from any possible embarrassment that might have come with suddenly rapidly listing off the names of his siblings.

“You decide. I’m fine with anything,” Joe says with a welcoming smile. He smiles a lot, so easy and bright and it makes his eyes sparkle all the more.

Nicky shifts slightly in his seat. Is Joe actually allowing him to order something using his own words? He’s not going to insist on talking over him, on making assumptions towards what he wants? Already this man is far superior to his ex. Nicky hated going out to eat with the other man because that is what he always had to look forward to. It had been frustrating beyond measure.

Nicky clears his throat and turns his attention towards their server. His focus is on a wall sconce across the space. It’s level with her eyes, allowing it to appear as though he is meeting her gaze. “Le Macchiole Rosso Bolgheri.”

“We have a bottle dated 2007, does that sound okay?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“You didn’t have to order a cheap bottle because of me,” Joe speaks up. He’d glanced the wine costs and saw that, compared to the others, that particular bottle was on the lower end of the pricing.

“I didn’t. I like that wine.”

“I’ve never had it but you’re Italian so I’ll trust your opinion on wine.” The poet laughs gently and Nicky allows a ghost of a smile to cross his features. Joe’s laughter is like music.

And there it is again, the awkward silence. It falls over them like a heavy blanket. Joe has never been at such a loss before. Normally he can talk with such ease but there’s something about all of this that weighs down his tongue, keeps him from delivering all the flattering lines that dance about in his mind.

Nicky is wringing his hands again, those eyes of his staring somewhere off to the side.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?” _What the fuck_. If he could, he would actually kick his own ass right now. What kind of flirting was that? Granted it wasn’t terrible, but it wasn't exactly grand either. Why was he such a disaster? Why did that suddenly leave his mouth unprecedented? Right. ADHD. _T_ _he bitch_.

Somehow he could craft the most lyrical of poetry about the man before him and yet sitting here, a mere three feet from him, the best he can come up with is that the man’s eyes are pretty. Fucking incredible. Truly the Shakespeare of flirtations.

Nicky blinks owlishly at him. “Uh...thank you,” he mutters after a few silent beats. “Yours as well.”

“Thank _you_ but I have to disagree. They are boring. Only brown.”

“Don’t say that,” Nicky protests, the outburst louder than intended. “Your eyes are...they’re...they suit you. They’re not boring. Brown is _not_ boring.”

Quynh wasn’t lying, Nicky _is_ kind and Joe can’t help but give him one of his billion dollar smiles.

The waitress materializes by the side of their table then, seemingly emerging from the shadows, and leaves the bottle atop it, allowing them to pour it themselves upon Joe’s request. She leaves them in peace, neither quite ready yet to put in their orders, both having been far too distracted by their stilted conversation to pay much mind to the list of fancy cuisine sitting before them in the little black and gold books.

Neither knows how to continue from Nicky's impassioned insistence—especially Nicky who wishes he could disappear right then and there.

They simultaneously reach out for the wine, their hands bumping the cool glass at the exact same moment, tipping it and spilling the burgundy colored alcohol across the table.

Nicky is _mortified_. His anxiety has been steadily climbing throughout the night and this infinitesimal mishap nearly sends him flying out of his seat and bounding out the door. But then Joe is laughing and it’s that hearty sort of sound that, Nicky has come to learn from past experiences with others, means he is being laughed with and not at. It relieves a modicum of tension and he gives the poet a ghost of a smile. A breathy chuckle even makes its way past his lips for all of a second.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Joe asks. The venue is lovely but there’s an air of formality to the restaurant that he believes to be the very crux of their awkward back and forth. He’s not comfortable in these sorts of settings, he needs somewhere more casual, he needs a more open space, a place where they can let loose and be themselves.

The question only causes another flood of anxiety to enter Nicky’s bloodstream. Their date was supposed to occur here. They weren’t meant to go anywhere else, this was where the date was to be held. And at the conclusion of the date he planned to thank Joe for seeing them and then head home. But now the other was asking if he wanted to leave. This wasn’t part of the plan. What about their date? This wasn’t part of the…

Nicky digs the fingers of his right hand into his leg in an attempt to calm his racing mind. It’s fine. Their date will continue only it will be away from here. It’s only a slight adjustment. Besides, he doesn’t even want to stay, not really. He wants an out and Joe is giving it to him. The entire night isn't going to turn to ruin with a change of scenery.

“Where would we be going?”

“The park? It’s not far from here.”

“ _Please_.”

* * *

Joe feels as though he can breathe easier out here under the stars. He takes a swig from the wine bottle clutched loosely in his left hand. Before they had left the restaurant, they’d paid for the one they’d spilled and Joe had purchased another to take with them. Nicky had so far turned down any offer Joe made to share in the wine.

There was a small Turkish food vendor within the park still operating at this late hour and the pair of them had ordered Gözleme filled with spinach and feta. At first Joe thought Nicky might turn his nose up to street vendor food but the other did no such thing. He didn’t seem like a snob but Joe hadn’t been entirely certain until that point.

“—then the RA walks in and of course I have no good explanation for why there are eight chickens in my dorm room,” Joe says as they walk along the winding paths, heading in the direction of the stage.

Conversation has become easier though he’s noted that he’s the one doing most of the talking. It’s something he was prepared for going in but he’d been hoping that once they’d removed themselves from the environment of the restaurant, that it might get the other to speak more. He doesn’t mind it, won’t push Nicky to converse if he doesn’t want to. He can talk enough for two people, anyway.

“So the first thing that comes to mind is to explain it away as ‘a Muslim thing’ and somehow it works. It was another three hours before my roommate showed up and got them the hell out. The room smelled like bird crap for the rest of the semester. And you’d _think_ that would have stopped him from partying so hard that he’d black out and end up doing something stupid again but no.”

Nicky takes a bite of the Gözleme but says nothing. There’s a subtle look of amusement on his face though and Joe has quickly come to realize that the cellist is not prone to overt displays of emotion. He’s far from emotionless but he’s _controlled_. Joe thinks that’s the right way to put it.

“Sorry for all the rambling,” he begins. Maybe he shouldn’t but he’s been trying to find a way to bring this up since he greeted Nicky in the restaurant. “I uh...have ADHD.”

“That’s okay,” Nicky mumbles, half lost in his own head.

The confession is enough to make his brain kick into overdrive. It tells his vocal cords and lungs to be honest with Joe, to inform the poet that he’s autistic but he stops himself before the confession is thrown out into the space between them. He doesn’t want to ruin the night, not when he’s enjoying himself. When people hear ‘I’m autistic,’ their demeanor changes. Some in the past have acted as though he were suddenly a leper, far too many dates ended abruptly, and others were flat out insensitive about it—such as the anti-vaxxers and the infantilizers like his ex turned out to be.

But Joe is different. He has to be. Quynh would never have set him up with somebody _like that_. He wars with his mind for too long because suddenly Joe’s voice is breaking through, wrenching his attention from his inner turmoil, decision on whether to tell him or not put to an abrupt halt.

“It’s that band,” Joe says, indicating the group of thirty-somethings upon the stage as he and Nicky emerge from the copse of trees and enter into the area where the slab sits.

The members are setting up and it must be for a special concert organized on their Facebook or Twitter because Joe has no other earthly idea as to why they’d be in the park so late. He’s never heard of bands doing this before, not here anyway, but then again, he’s never been in the park after dark so this could be a nightly occurrence amongst the various bands that grace the platform during daylight hours for all he knows.

“Hmm?”

“When you were missing on Saturday, they were here playing. No Gap, I think?”

“I had a concert.”

That would explain the cellist’s absence. “It was strange not seeing you up there. I understood that day why so many artists lament losing their muses.”

“I’m your muse?” Nicky asks slowly, unsure.

“I hope that doesn’t bother you,” Joe says, suddenly sheepish. He rubs a hand against the back of his neck. It’s a habit he’s had since he was a teenager. Whenever he’s feeling an abundance of an emotion, whether it’s stress, embarrassment, anger, glee, or just about anything else, it’s an automatic motion.

“It doesn’t.”

There’s that smile again, the one that makes Joe’s entire face light up like the sun. Silence descends but this time it’s a comfortable sort of quiet that neither man feels the itching need to fill. So they finish their food, throw out the containers, and hang back, watching as No Gap continues to set up. The bassist is strumming and tuning, trying to find that perfect tautness to the strings.

It’s another minute before the band seems content and they slide easily into position to play a short warm-up before their concert.

“This is the song they played the day you had your show,” Joe explains upon recognizing the tune. “ _Stay the Night_. Do you like alternative rock?”

“It’s not bad.”

“More a classic kind of guy, huh?”

“And opera.”

“You’re too cultured for me,” Joe laughs.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky mumbles, looking down at his feet. Apologizing comes as naturally as breathing to him. It’s safer to say sorry than to assume he's done nothing wrong—at least, that’s what he thinks.

“No, no, I was only joking.”

“Oh.”

“Poet and artist, remember? I might not be opera's biggest fan but I’m cultured in other ways.”

“We compliment each other,” Nicky says, still looking down at his shoes. He rocks gently from the tips of his toes to the balls of his feet. “The artist and the musician. The poet and the muse.”

“The poet and the muse,” Joe repeats, a gentle smile gracing his features. “I like that.”

There’s that barely there smile that makes Nicky’s face light up in a way that is reminiscent of the soft glow of the full moon.

Something in Joe longs to reach out, to cup the side of Nicky’s face, to gently press his lips to the mole that rests there that simply _begs_ to be kissed. But it’s too soon for that sort of intimacy. He doesn’t even know if there will be a second date.

Joe can hear people in the distance. They’re getting closer and he suspects its the No Gap fans making their way over. He grins and looks at the other man. They might as well spend the rest of the evening enjoying the concert, it’ll be a nice way to bring their date to a close.

“Say,” he begins, “wanna _Stay the Night_?”

Joe nearly laughs at his own dumb joke but it’s as if those words open a floodgate because suddenly a cacophony of sound explodes around them. There’s the crowd breaking through the trees, screaming and whooping and somebody is blasting music at a near deafening level from a boombox. A car in the distance backfires, and the band on stage starts up their instruments as if playing some victory march for a train of soldiers coming home from war, the lead singer shouting something into the mic, his voice excitable and _too fucking loud_.

Nicky feels as though his head is about to split open. He’s used to the blare of the city, he’s become accustomed to it, but this roaring din of sound is not the typical noise of a sprawling metropolis. It’s all _too much_.

He wants to scream, to tell everybody to be quiet but he keeps silent, his hands moving to cover his ears. It would all be so utterly useless anyway. The world does not bend to people like him. In fact, it’s a rather unfriendly place in that regard. It does everything in its power to tell him that he and others like him are not welcome. The best thing he can do is to remove himself from the situation.

“Nicky?” Joe’s voice cuts through the commotion like a ship's hull through water.

“I’m leaving,” Nicky whispers, voice strained. Dammit, he hadn’t meant for it to come out like that but his head aches. He doesn’t want to seem rude, doesn’t want to look like a stereotype because he's seen how autistic people are portrayed and viewed and rudeness is a major flag. He hates it. He hates it all so much.

“What? Hey, Nicky, if I said any—”

“I’m sorry,” Nicky manages to get out before turning on his heel and fleeing the park, leaving Joe behind to wonder what he had done wrong, what he had said to chase the other away.

* * *

Twice a week the cellist is in the park and twice a week Joe finds himself there too.

He’s been waiting since their date to see Nicky again. He lied to his friends, told them that things went alright. Joe didn’t want them on his case, wants to handle things with Nicky on his own. If the man tells him to fuck off then he’ll leave and avoid the park every Wednesday and Saturday for the rest of his life. But he can’t leave things hanging. He has to apologize for whatever he did. He wants to ask for a second chance because he finds he likes Nicky a great deal already and it has absolutely nothing to do with the cellist being his muse. He finds Nicky charming and kind and patient.

If there’s even a sliver of a possibility that Nicky will indulge him in another date, he wishes to seize it.

As expected, the man is there on stage, his fingers moving along the strings, pressing them down into the fingerboard as the bow glides along the lower half of the instrument, producing the most beautiful music for those gathered to absorb.

Joe sits in his usual spot. There is no notebook in his hands, no charcoal or graphite pencil clutched between his thumb and forefinger. He’s here to listen and talk; though as he watches the Italian play his mind fiddles with words, stringing them together to create gorgeous verses about the man who seems to have been born to master the cello.

When the hour is up and Nicky stands to pack the instrument away with all the care that one would employ when tending a newborn, Joe weaves through the seats, climbs the stairs up to the stage.

“Nicky,” he says. It startles the other man, his head whipping up to gaze at Joe who is standing above him on the other side of the opened cello case.

“Joe,” he parrots.

“I wanted to apologize for our date,” Joe begins. “I haven’t been on one in awhile, I suppose I’m out of practice. I’ll admit I wasn’t the best at flirting the other night either and usually I’m better at it than that. If it was me asking you to stay the night, I was only making a joke about the song they were playing before those fans showed up.”

He was over-explaining, he knew that, but it was his ADHD acting up again and he couldn’t help it. Using far too many words even to issue an apology was not uncommon. Normally it didn’t bother him all that much, to ramble on, but right this very moment he found it was irritating. “Look, you can say no and I won’t blame you but would you like to go on another date? I’d like to make it up to you, whatever I did. But if not I completely understand and I’ll le—”

“Joe, I’m autistic,” Nicky blurts out. His focus drops from Joe’s face, lightning quick. The cellist focuses solely on the deep, purple velvet lining of the case before him, not wanting to meet Joe’s eyes, not wishing to see the disappoint or disgust that might now be swirling in those obsidian depths.

“Okay,” Joe says plainly.

Nicky looks up at him again, blinks owlishly for the second time since meeting the other. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Joe responds with a shrug.

“I...okay?”

Joe laughs. “You’re autistic, Nicky, not a serial killer. I’m not bothered. Now, if you _were_ a serial killer then I’d be concerned.”

Nicky has not an inkling of what to say in response to that. He can only continue to stare at Joe, to look at this man who, without hesitation, accepted Nicky for who he is. He’s been so unlucky thus far that it feels too good to be true but he knows he’s not dreaming and something warm fills his heart to know this is reality.

“So...do you want to go on a second date?”

“...I believe I would. But maybe this time we can _stay_ somewhere quiet,” Nicky says. “You did nothing wrong. You have nothing to apologize for. I had to leave because all the noise...it gave me an auditory overload.”

“Maybe our next date should be in a church,” Joe jokes and Nicky laughs, bright and high and there's a tiny snort that escapes him that he doesn't seem to notice but Joe does and he adores it.

The cello is put away and Nicky snaps the case closed. He stands and makes to bid Joe farewell but the poet is speaking before he can open his mouth.

“Can I walk with you out of the park?”

“I would like that,” Nicky says.

They climb down from the stage and weave their way along the paths, the quiet between them comfortable, the atmosphere light. Their flats are on opposite sides of the park and so when they reach the entrance, they stop and look at each other and Nicky does something he doesn’t ever do but he feels comfortable in committing the action with Joe.

He slips his hand into the other’s, locking their fingers together. The poet looks down in surprise for a moment then back up and there’s that sunshine smile upon his face and it makes the muse’s own moonlit one appear.

“I like you, Yusuf Al-Kaysani.”

“I like you too, Nicolò di Genova.”

**Author's Note:**

> adagio (adverb): (especially as a direction) in slow tempo
> 
> Translation of the Italian:  
> Buongiorno = Good morning  
> Grazie = Thank you  
> Bellissimo = Beautiful  
> Addio = Goodbye  
> Fuori dal cazzo = Get the fuck out  
> Prendi la tua merda e vai = Take your shit and go  
> Stronzo = Asshole  
> Bastardo = Bastard  
> Allora ti mostrerò cosa sto dicendo = Then I'll show you what I'm saying  
> Prego = You're welcome
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this and are looking forward to the other parts!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Come talk to me or send me prompts on my tumblr [here](http://ravynwytch.tumblr.com)


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